


Sweet as Sugar

by Laurasauras



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28308927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurasauras/pseuds/Laurasauras
Summary: John works at his family's cafe. Dave drinks coffee and tries to play it cool.
Relationships: John Egbert/Dave Strider
Comments: 18
Kudos: 73





	Sweet as Sugar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NovaStars42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaStars42/gifts).



> Happy Christmas, Abby!

~~The first meeting~~

It’s a busy morning, despite the fact that it’s a Wednesday and the people who have 9am starts should be behind their desks by now. Busy for you rarely means a line, you’re not a fucking _Starbucks,_ but it does mean that you haven’t really had a breather between customers long enough to even clean the steam from your glasses that you’re much too experienced to have even gotten there to begin with. And then there is a break, so you sigh and start cleaning your glasses on your apron and in the very few seconds it takes for you to do this, a vague blur-person launches through the door and puts their hands on your counter.

‘Listen to me very carefully, glasses, because I am in a no joke, life-or-death situation here and you’re the only one who can save me.’ 

You put your glasses on and frown at the guy, now delivered in high resolution before you. He takes this as an invitation to keep talking.

‘I have just stayed at my sister’s house for three days. Three days, baby-blue, that’s 69 hours of me being inside a house with the walls painted black and the carpet daring you to spill red wine on its white and fluffy self and all her surfaces are made of stainless steel, do you have a good enough mental image yet?’

You nod, now looking at him as if he’s a crazy person instead of a person who might possibly need your help. This does not deter him.

‘And while I was there, we did activities. We went antiquing, which, again, everything she has is modern, it was patently ridiculous. We baked cookies together, which she refused to eat because she said she was watching her figure, also ridiculous, she ate half the Chinese takeout menu the night before, she definitely just didn’t think we cooked them right. We did a jigsaw. A _jigsaw,_ cowlick. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

‘Not even a little,’ you say.

‘What I’m saying, nametag,’ he looks down at your chest and his eyebrows lift above the aviators he’s still wearing. ‘John, cool, I can work with John. What I’m saying, John, is that I have been tortured for so long that I don’t even know my own name anymore, let alone do I still possess the ability to ask for the name of my saviour, I’m fucking wiped, they hold me up at surfboarding conventions and tell the righteous dudes that if they end up like me it will be most ungnarly, I am about to pass out on your floor and this lack of consciousness will be a godsend.’

‘Are you asking for coffee?’ you ask.

‘Yes.’

You pull your lips inward to convey even more judgement. He looks at you as if he doesn’t feel remotely judged, but you like to think you’re getting to him. He’s not looking like he’s on the verge of passing out, he’s actually pretty healthy looking. Attractive, even, and maybe he talks like that because he knows that hot people can get away with being crazy.

‘You know that you’ve just stalled the getting of your coffee a whole bunch with that speech,’ you say.

‘Okay, that’s a decent point,’ he says, tipping his head in a nod. ‘May I pretty please have a cappuccino? For here, like in a mug.’

‘I guess,’ you say. ‘Do you have money?’

He pulls out a $10 bill and slaps it on the counter before sliding it your way. You pick it up and hold it to the light, checking for the watermark. When you drop your hands again, you peek at his reaction. His mouth remains impassive. Ah well, you probably didn’t want to piss off a customer anyway. You do the register thing and hand him his change, then step to the side to the machines.

‘I like jigsaw puzzles,’ you tell him as you fill the cup with freshly ground beans. 

‘Yeah, Rose doesn’t,’ he says. ‘What she _likes_ is lulling me into a false sense of comfort with the thing I can look at and play with so that I do something stupid like _talk,_ which is, just, the last thing I want to do.’

‘The last thing you want to do is talk,’ you say flatly, heating milk in motions so practiced you don’t need to bother with the thermometer. 

‘I never talk,’ he says seriously. ‘This just then, it was a freak accident, all it could be. Unless . . . John, I think I’m in love with you.’

You manage to not burn the milk. You do _not_ manage to pour it into his waiting mug because pulling it away from the steamer is as much as you have the brainspace to do. 

‘I’m fucking with you, John,’ he says. 

You laugh and push your hair back. 

‘Duh,’ you say. ‘Man, good prank. You’re deadpan.’

You pour the milk. You make a leaf out of the foam on reflex, even though you’re going to cover it up with chocolate powder. He makes grabby hands. 

‘Jeez, don’t burn your tongue,’ you say, pushing it towards him. 

‘Thank you,’ he says, turning with that hesitation of a guy who doesn’t know exactly where to sit in a pretty crowded cafe. He chooses a direction and glances back at you. ‘I love you,’ he says, still in that serious tone. 

‘Love you too, buddy,’ you say. 

He claps a hand to his heart and then slouches to an armchair. You realise that there was a woman waiting behind him for god knows how long. You feel your cheeks get hot. 

‘Hey, how can I help you?’ you ask, smiling as charming as you can.

~~The second meeting~~

The coffee’s good, the atmosphere is chill, you were able to hang around for over an hour without anyone pressuring you to buy more or get the fuck out, these are all excellent reasons to go back to _Sweet as Sugar._ You’re really going because you have a crush and you can’t get enough of that giddy, hopeful feeling as you sit around and wait for him to ask about your screenplay. It’s a cliche because it works.

You’re also not working on your screenplay. You’re paranoid about someone reading something that’s real, with the names centred on the page and shortenings of words like “EXT” and the whole thing in Times New Roman. That’s the most serious of fonts, that font means business, that font is gonna take you out back and ask you to bite the curb if you don’t stop fuckin’ around. No, that mess isn’t peeking out of your Macbook screen and ruining the reputation you intend to develop here, same as everywhere else. You’re an unrepentant douchebag, people gotta work to see your heart of gold. Instead of playing it sincere, you blog.

‘You know there are pictures of Tony Hawk that don’t look like they’ve been shit out of an even bigger shit,’ you hear by your shoulder, so you tip your head back to look up in an appropriately careless way.

‘He doesn’t deserve it,’ you say.

‘He seems like a good dude,’ John argues. ‘He does charity skates.’

‘Bzzt, sorry man, you’re focusing on the wrong word in that sentence,’ you say, dropping your head back and increasing your slouch in your chair by another inch or two. ‘He _skates,_ god, do you even know how fucking lame that is? This jackass is going around thinking that makes him cool, clinging desperately in pathetic midlife fantasy to the hobby he mastered back in the fucking 80s and let me tell you, skateboarding wasn’t cool then, either. The only thing that can be said for this irredeemable monstrosity on my screen right now is at least he wasn’t into BMX.’

John pauses, but you don’t give into the temptation to look around at him. You just keep typing at that same steady pace that you were able to maintain during your speech. 

‘Did you want another coffee or what,’ John finally says.

‘Oh, fuck yes,’ you say, straightening in your chair. 

‘You’re a douchebag,’ he tells you.

‘Yup, clean ‘em right out,’ you say, handing your mug to him. It’s worth it to watch him recoil from your words. Your smile tugs up involuntarily but minutely. He snatches your mug and walks away, shaking his head.

Ten minutes later, unable to get the idea of coffee out of your head now that he’s planted it there, you make your way to the counter to find out what’s taking so long and catch him in an intense looking conversation. You should leave John to deal with his brother (they gotta be brothers), but you’re not a considerate person. You get your snoop on.

‘No, Jake,’ John is saying. ‘I know what you’re doing here and it’s not going to fly. We both know that _Tremors_ is one of the greatest movies of all time and you’re not going to bait me into an argument just because you want us to talk about it more.’

You feel yourself smile in amusement and lean against the counter.

‘Johnny-boy—’ Jake starts, but John talks over him.

‘Here are the stone cold facts. First, Val and Earl have one of the best broships in cinema and there’s nothing gay about lighting someone else’s cigarette, I’ve seen my dad do that for other guys a million times.’

‘Hold up, phenomo-John—’

‘Second, the reason the first monster dies when it knocks into the aqueduct and the other ones don’t die with all the incredibly cool guns is because shut up and also fuck you. Also, have some faith in the craftsmanship of American aqueducts, okay?’

‘Johnald Duck—’

‘Third, aforementioned incredibly cool guns are not enough to get me to watch it for the third time in a month—’

‘Cheese on a cracker, Johncoming traffic—’

‘And neither is trying to bait me into an argument so that you can be all “oh shucks, better pull the tapes on this one!” because Jake, we’ve watched it so many times.’

‘Yo, John,’ you say, rescuing the situation before you have to hear another weird nickname. They both look at you, John’s hands frozen where he was using them to gesture emphatically at Jake. ‘You were getting me coffee. I’m about to die of dehydration up a fuckin’ electrical tower if you don’t provide me with the good shit.’

‘Sweet reference, bro,’ Jake says with a grin that just about stops your heart. He looks really similar to John, just kinda fresher like he hasn’t been working all morning. _Ease up, cowboy,_ you tell yourself. _We already got ourselves a crush in these parts. Ain’t room in town for both of them._

‘Fiiiine,’ John says, rolling his eyes like you’ve asked him something much more inconvenient than to do his job. ‘Jake, you’re going to be late anyway.’

‘Arrest your worries, sonny Johnny,’ Jake says, raising his wrist with a flourish and pulling back his sleeve. ‘I have calcu— _fucking fiddlesticks,_ I’m going to be late.’

And then you have to jump out of the way in a far too abrupt manner to avoid being flattened when Jake plants his palm on the counter and vaults himself over the top of it. 

‘We’re watching _Tremors!’_ he calls as he runs out the door.

‘No!’ John shouts after him, but Jake’s long gone. He sighs and frowns at the milk as he steams it. Then he frowns at you instead. ‘Are you about to be an idiot? You look like you’re about to be an idiot.’

‘You know me so well,’ you say, smiling warmly at him. You watch your fingers play with the edge of a menu. ‘Do you, like, not care about this job? Or am I special for being able to see the real you without the customer service smile?’

‘I can usually pick the customers who want me to be fakey-cheery,’ he says, shrugging. ‘And my grandma owns this place, I don’t think she’s gonna fire me.’

‘Nepotism,’ you say, nodding with respect.

‘Yup,’ he says. He sprinkles on chocolate to your coffee. ‘Want a marshmallow to make up for it?’

‘Oh my god, yes,’ you say. 

He drops a pink one into your waiting hand and then replaces the tongs on their little hook. He raises his eyebrows at you and then makes a shooing motion with his hands. Whoops, you were staring. You take your drink and escape back to your chair, face hot. You look back at him and watch him as he wipes down the coffee machine. You jerk your eyes back to your laptop before you can make more than half-formed fantasies about the biceps making that black tee _work._ What were you even blogging about? You don’t even look to see if you’ve finished your sentence before hitting post. It’s the authentic Dave Strider experience up in this business.

~~The twelfth meeting~~

‘No, we don’t even have the stuff for it,’ you say, firmly standing your ground. 

‘John,’ Dave says, in that tone that sounds so reasonable from an outsider perspective but has your shoulders creeping up because you know he’s going to talk at you for a really long time. ‘This is a sign from the universe, do you really want to piss off the universe? The universe has gone all out, shopped the craft stores, bought the premium glitter, not the shitty stuff that is somehow inferior, there’s a price difference and you gotta appreciate that there’s a reason even though it’s not an immediately identifiable difference, it’s—’

‘Can I get a coffee?’ a woman says over the top of him.

‘Sure thing!’ you say, smiling at her as sunny as you can because you can tell from a million miles away what she’s going to be like if you’re not on best behaviour. ‘What can I get for you?’

You take her order and attentively fill it. You think she’s assuming that Dave is some kind of social visit rather than a customer, which wouldn’t be the first time. You give him every tenth coffee free even when he doesn’t remember his card and sometimes put a marshmallow or cookie on his table as you go past, because Nanna always taught you to keep the regulars around and you like him despite yourself. Or maybe despite _him._ Jake finds him intimidating and Jane finds him abrasive and you can get where they’re both coming from, but he’s just Dave. Even though it hasn’t been that long since you met him, he’s filled that acquaintanceship with so many words that you feel like you’ve known him for years. You finish up with the other customer and turn back to him, grateful that he decided to be quiet and let you do that.

‘Sorry,’ you say. ‘And no, still not accepting a—hey, what’s the matter?’ 

Dave is looking at the ground. For a couple seconds, you think he’s miserable and it makes your heart clench in your chest, desperate to do anything to change that. Then he lifts his head and smiles apologetically. 

‘Sorry man, I was fucking with you. Just a cap.’

‘It’s just that Starbucks has this whole mix thing, probably. Or syrup? We have vanilla syrup, I could make you a vanilla cappuccino?’

‘Nah, man, seriously, I’m over it.’

‘Where’s the universe leaf?’ you ask.

‘The universe took it back,’ he says, putting his hands in his pockets so that his “what are you gonna do” shrug is at maximum cuteness. Usually you find his poses annoying or at least exasperating (because you’re not gonna give him free stuff just because he’s pretty, _god),_ but this one just feels like a bad attempt at distraction. 

‘Dave, what happened to the universe leaf,’ you say, customer service smile thrown in the bin and manager frown locked and loaded. 

He points at the ground. You lift yourself up a bit via the bench so that you can see over it. You can’t pick out the specific leaf amongst the trodden and broken ones there, which you guess is the point.

‘But!’ you say, indignant.

‘You gotta let things go, John,’ he laughs. ‘It was just a leaf.’

‘No!’ you say. ‘It was a universe leaf! It landed right in between your dumb fingers in the one point in time you had them exposed to the elements!’

‘I know, I was there,’ he says.

‘It was your exact skin tone! I saw it!’ 

‘I was there for that part too,’ he says, laughter in his voice again. 

‘Dave, it was a sign from the universe! The kind of sign that takes glitter or whatever!’

‘Yeah, obviously, that kind of shit definitely couldn’t happen without it being universe ordained, but the universe changed its mind and now wants me to go plain and simple. Keep it real. I can respect that. People and universes are allowed to change their minds.’

You do not accept this. 

‘Mind the counter,’ you tell him, which is probably not a good thing to say to someone like Dave, but you’re already rushing to the back so that you can figure out how to make this better. 

In the back, you stare at the small kitchen. You don’t cook that much in house, everyone in your family has a crazy kitchen setup except for you, so they cook at home and bring things in. This is mostly so that you can have fresh cookie smell and so that Jane has something to do when she gets fidgety. None of your stupid family can stand still for more than like two minutes. 

You rummage through the small pantry muttering, _‘C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,’_ to yourself. Your face feels all tense with worry, because this is probably not good enough, but damn it you don’t have a special syrup and this is as good as you can do! You rush back out to the front, and not even your anxiety can make you stop from checking that Dave hasn’t set fire to your nanna’s shop or anything. He’s just leaning his back against the counter like he was when you left him, there aren’t even any other customers. 

‘I don’t have pumpkin,’ you tell him.

‘John, chill,’ he says, turning to lean on his forearms instead, long legs stretched ridiculously behind him. 

‘Also, I feel like they probably roast the pumpkin or something. I’m not going to make you wait 40 minutes for a coffee. But it doesn’t even matter because I don’t have pumpkin.’

‘John,’ he says. 

‘But this will be fine!’ you say, flashing him a smile that feels a bit too fake. You pour maple syrup into the mug as the espresso drips into it and then turn your attention to the milk. You shake cinnamon into it and stir it, eyes unnecessarily focused on what your hands are doing. You have to look up at him as you begin to heat it, because you always do.

‘We also don’t have fresh cinnamon,’ you say, grimacing with apology. ‘Or maybe we do, I don’t know Jane’s system, you know?’

‘John,’ he says.

‘Seriously though, I actually can’t taste the difference between the stuff in the jar and the fresh stuff, I know that’s like, basically illegal or something, haha, you should cuff me!’

‘John,’ he says.

‘But I can’t! Not once it’s cooked, anyway, obviously cinnamon makes a huuuuge deal of itself when you’re grating it. Which is a pain in the butt, too.’

He leans his forehead on his hands. You can see behind him to where he’s crossed his ankles. Ha, that’s so . . . Dave. You don’t know why it is, it just is. You stir the espresso and syrup together as well as you can, add some milk, stir it again.

‘And that probably wouldn’t have dissolved as well. You should be thanking me for my shitty supplies!’

You pour the rest of the milk, rocking the jug so that the foam makes a leaf. Then you take the thermometer from the jug and draw the lines a bit sharper. There, now it’s _almost_ a maple leaf.

‘They have stencils too,’ you say, shaking your head at your offering. You show him the pattern and then dust it with chocolate, covering it. ‘Sorry, this is a really sucky offering in exchange for a cosmic fucking leaf or whatever.’

‘John,’ he says, which you’re just realising he’s said a whole bunch. You look down at him, full attention now to make up for not doing that before.

‘Yeah?’

He hesitates. He eases himself back up so he’s standing normally. 

‘Thanks,’ he says. 

Was that it? You feel a bit confused, but you push it down.

‘You’re welcome,’ you say, smiling a bit more genuinely now. 

A minute later, back in his usual seat, you hear Dave make a loud groan, obviously intended to draw your attention. When you look, he stares at you, takes an obvious sip, puts his mug down, and then collapses his whole body over his chair as if he’s been shot. You think that was supposed to be a swoon. You laugh so hard that you feel self conscious about it. 

Later, he hands you a leaf from outside, completely whole and not remotely looking like his colouring, which you’d probably compare to oak. You take it with great care and message Jade to ask her how to preserve it. You go and buy a book next door just so you can press the leaf between its pages.

~~The twentieth meeting~~

He starts your coffee before you even close the door now. Which is sweet, you love being so familiar that you can have “the usual” at “your regular”, but it means that you don’t have an excuse to hang around the counter while he makes it. You didn’t really have that excuse before, he takes everyone else their coffee to their table, unless it’s a takeaway. Which, actually, this one is. 

‘Can I get that to go?’ you ask when you arrive at the counter. 

He’s poised to pour the milk. He looks at you with annoyance.

‘Ugh, whatever, this can be mine now,’ he says, finishing the coffee.

‘Can I do the chocolate,’ you ask. 

He does this geeky snorty thing that isn’t at all attractive and pushes the mug and shaker over to you before starting on your coffee. He’s lethally cute. And he totally gives you special treatment.

‘Where are you going?’ he asks. ‘Don’t tell me you’re depriving your legion of fans to a whole afternoon without your weird tangents and shitty pictures.’

‘Okay, I won’t tell you that,’ you say, smiling. He’s so easy to smile at. ‘I’m going to visit my sister,’ you say.

‘You hate your sister,’ he says.

‘What, no I don’t,’ you protest. ‘I like her. So much. Shit’s downright familial.’

‘You’ve told me at least three times not to ever let you talk to her again,’ he says. ‘One time you clutched my apron in your little racoon hands and begged me to shoot you if you ever agreed to spend even a second in her presence ever again.’

‘I don’t have racoon hands,’ you say, frowning at your hands. ‘I have nice hands. I don’t even bite my nails. I _file_ them, like a considerate person. Look, look at my hands John. Feel them. They’re soft. You want these hands up in your business, acknowledge this.’

John bears you putting your hand on his face with a doofy smile like you’re going to realise you’ve done something stupid any second and—oh god you just stroked his cheek, how unambiguously non-platonic was that, your own cheeks are _burning._ You snatch your hand away and duck your chin to your chest, clearing your throat.

‘Rose is great,’ you say, getting back on topic. John hands you your coffee, but you stay put. You’re in the middle of a conversation, after all. ‘She just tortures me a little sometimes. I mean, I should absolutely never talk to her, I just love talking to her way too much to stop.’

He steps up on his toes and then back down, clearly trying to take some of the pressure off his feet. Instead of letting him escape to the back room where he can sit down, you keep talking.

‘I mean, if I could just not mention my dreams when I talk to her, everything would probably be fine. I had this dream last night that I was dating my high school best friend, or I was trying to but we were both in some kind of like torture dungeon thing and I felt bad that he’d been tortured more than me, then we went to this club type thing, still in our fuckin’ torture rags might I add, and I tried to kiss him, but then there’s this _gorgeous_ femme non-binary motherfucker (and I mean it, you can tell they fuck mothers), who is actually, like in real life, married to someone I know and absolutely has nothing to do with my high school, and they’re dating each other and I feel like this kind of intimidated feeling that I get specifically with feminine people I’m attracted to and also kind of cheated out of getting my mack on with my best friend, who I didn’t think I had feelings for but you know, it’s a dream. Oh, and I was really excited that the number one song for the year was “our song”, like me and my best friend’s, but it was “You Give Love a Bad Name” by Bon Jovi, so that didn’t make any sense.’

Your brain catches up with your mouth and you drop your forehead to your palm in self-exasperation. 

‘Yeah, so that’s the kind of thing I shouldn’t say to Rose.’

‘That’s the kind of thing you shouldn’t say to anyone,’ John advises. ‘Maybe you won’t now you’ve gotten it off your chest?’

‘Maybe,’ you shrug. 

You think about touching his cheek. It was soft. He didn’t stop you. This is much more distressing than your dream, which is of medium weirdness according to your personal scale. Rose is going to give you so much over you caressing random baristas. The idea of not telling her doesn’t even occur to you.

You raise your cup to him and then leave the shop. You’ve never wanted anyone to think you were cool more and you know for a fact that he hasn’t thought that even for a second.

~~The twenty-fifth meeting~~

It’s weird and kind of sad how many people are lurking in a cafe on Christmas Eve. You’re open late tonight, because your dad also finds it weird and sad, but his response is to welcome everyone in instead of what you’d rather do, which is close the doors and send them off to McDonalds. There’s two pretty close by and one of them is open even on Christmas, so they could hang out there. You get that your place is nicer, though.

Dave’s here, because his family are varying degrees of Buddhist and when you complained about drawing the short straw for Christmas Eve he took it on himself to “keep you company”. You didn’t point out that what he was doing was giving you an extra customer. You’ve been hanging around his table during the quiet moments so that he is forced to follow his intentions and entertain you. He actually clears stuff away from empty tables and puts them behind the counter for you now, which is pretty nice of him. Your dad would probably kill you if he knew. It’s a two-way exploitative relationship though, you give Dave all the ugly cookies that you shouldn’t sell. He likes them better than the pretty ones, which isn’t really surprising. 

‘Tell me again about this wonderful world of Christmas,’ Dave says, resting his chin in his palm and looking up at you in what could be an innocent expression if he ever gave his shades a rest. He was born in Houston and cannot do a Vietnamese accent to save his life, so his act could use some work.

‘Well, first you pray to the tree god really nice. Then, while you’re distracting it, your sister sneaks up on the prettiest tree in the woods and cuts it down.’

Jake bursts through the door before you can make anything else up. You smile and hold a finger up to excuse yourself at Dave and get yourself behind the counter. For all his jobs, Jake thinks the coffee machine is out to get him and so cannot help himself like the rest of your family. Dave trails after you, because he very annoyingly likes your family.

‘Thanks, John Air,’ Jake says gratefully. 

‘You have so many of those,’ Dave observes.

‘It’s an easy name to do it with,’ Jake says. His eyes go to the ceiling for a moment as he thinks, then snap back down to Dave as he raises two finger guns. ‘Dave-ing Private Ryan.’

‘Oh my god,’ Dave says.

‘I can’t stay for long,’ Jake says, turning back to you. ‘Just needed a pick-me-up on the way through. Uber Eats-ing it until 10.’

‘Where’ve you come from?’ you ask.

‘Santa,’ he says. ‘Well, I was an elf. Maybe next year they’ll trust me in the big man’s seat.’

‘You got Christmas off?’ Dave asks.

‘Yes! Made sure to, can’t miss all the festivities!’

‘It’s hot,’ you say sternly to Jake as you hand over the coffee.

Jake stops from where he was absolutely about to drink it straight away and smiles sheepishly at you.

‘Better get my wriggle on,’ he says. He winks at you and then Dave, and strides out the door. 

‘What do you think his craziest job is?’ Dave asks you.

‘The one where he does manicures and stuff is pretty weird,’ you say thoughtfully. ‘Only because literally every other person who works there is a tiny Chinese lady and he’s, you know, Jake.’

‘I need to see that,’ Dave says.

‘He jumps out of cakes sometimes? Once when he was dressed as Elvis? That’s pretty weird.’

‘Also need to see that.’

‘The real weird thing is the crazy _amount_ of jobs he has,’ you say, finishing with your cleaning and walking back to Dave’s table. 

‘What does he even say when people ask him what he does?’

‘“Spot of this and that”,’ you say, attempting to mimic Jake’s accent. He sounds like an old-time Hollywood actor, that weird halfway compromise between British and American that lends well to phrases like “now look here, toots”. You can only sometimes do it.

Dave settles back in his seat and you lean against the arm of a neighbouring armchair. 

‘Anyway, none of his jobs are as weird as mine,’ you say. ‘I have _you_ to deal with at mine.’

A slow smile creeps across his face and he lifts his foot to gently kick you in the shin. You grin back at him, even though he doesn’t need you to let him in on the joke. He knows you like him, because how could he not? You like him and his dumb face so much.

Like, a lot, you’re realising. More than you’ve liked anyone in a really long time. The thought of this fills you with a dizzy, nervous, excited feeling. You smile a bit wider and then drop your eyes to your apron and fiddle with the strings.

‘Are you really going to stay with me until we close?’ you ask.

‘Yeah, man,’ he says. ‘I mean, I’ll fuck off if you really want me to, but it’s not like I have anywhere else to be.’

‘Nah, I like you here,’ you say. It feels almost like bravery, except that you are absolutely _covered_ in plausible deniability. ‘Guess I’ve gotten used to you or something, now I don’t know how I managed to fill my down-time before.’

‘Ha, yeah,’ he says.

‘So earn your keep,’ you say, nudging his foot with yours. ‘Tell me a story.’

‘Like from my life or made up?’ he asks.

‘Make one up.’

‘Okay,’ he says. He leans back in his chair and stares up at the roof for a bit, and then looks over to you. ‘Now, don’t go falling in love with me because I’m revealing a more genuine side, okay? But I’ve been working on a screenplay. Like for a movie.’

‘Oh no, I don’t think I can promise that,’ you say seriously. ‘Haven’t we loved each other from the first time we met?’

His ears go red and he laughs. A second later and you’re feeling kind of embarrassed yourself. Maybe that was a bit too close to home.

‘Okay, fine, love me if you gotta,’ he says. ‘But try and keep your dick in your pants, I don’t think the cops would accept “but he’s a really good storyteller” as a defence against the charge of public indecency.’

‘I’ll try.’

He tells you his story, which is every bit as weird and engaging as he is himself. He keeps his voice low and doesn’t quite look at you, and you think that this is what he looks like when he cares about something and isn’t hiding it. You think that you want to see more of this. And that you don’t know what you did to get something so special.

Eventually, the rest of the customers leave and you start your end-of-day routine. You come to a stop in front of the coffee machine and chew on your lip. And make a call.

‘One last one before I turn this off?’ you ask Dave.

‘Sure,’ he says. 

He keeps sweeping the floor as you make two coffees in to-go cups, so that you don’t have to handwash mugs once you have everything else cleaned up. You use the special syrup you convinced Jane to make from scratch for the holidays. For Dave, really. Because you don’t care if anyone else gets special wintery drinks, but you knew he’d be just as excited as he was when you gave him a much better version of his autumn coffee. 

And on his cup, you write your number. You stare at it while the coffee filters through the machine and wonder if you should put a little heart next to it. Maybe x’s or o’s. No, you’re not that brave. For all you know, Dave’s like this with all his baristas. (No, he’s not. He likes you way better than anyone else you’ve seen him with.)

You put lids on the coffees and clean the machines. You take out the bins and empty the dishwasher for the last time. You turn off the main lights while Dave’s still checking that the sugar bowls on the tables are full. You laugh when he protests. He looks beautiful in just the twinkly Christmas lights. Especially when he hooks his ever-present shades into the front of his shirt and you can see his whole face for the first time.

Packing up goes much quicker with two of you. You both lean against the counter and sip your coffees in the dim light. 

‘Hey, can I make things weird?’ Dave asks quietly.

‘You’re asking permission?’ you laugh, also quiet. The soft light and the still street outside make you feel like maybe you should be whispering.

‘Yeah, kinda feel like I should give you a heads up on this kind of weirdness,’ he says. ‘Was thinking of getting a bit sincere. Maybe even heartfelt. Don’t want you to injure yourself in the face of that.’

‘I can handle it,’ you say.

Neither of you are looking at each other, but your arms are just touching and you don’t think you need eye contact for things to get all “heartfelt”, whatever that means. You like the warmth of him. You like his homemade jumper, patterned with the musical stave for a song you’d never heard of. You touch the cuff of it to see if it’s as soft as it looks. It is.

‘I like you,’ he says. ‘I’ve got a big old crush on you and it’s not going away. It’s getting worse, actually, because I keep getting to know you better and you’re awesome. And, I don’t know, I thought it might be a good idea to just say something before I get even more attached. I get it, you know, if you’re not comfortable hanging out like this with a dude who likes you, that’d be pretty understandable. I just thought I’d say.’

You stare at your hands. He sips his coffee as if he hasn’t said something monumental. You don’t know if you’re brave enough for this after all. _He’s_ brave, and clever and creative and funny and so handsome. You’re just a guy working in his family’s cafe because you don’t have any better ideas and you kind of love it when old ladies tell you that you’re a good boy for getting their coffees even though you should probably find that insultingly condescending. 

‘I’m gonna bounce,’ Dave says, standing up. ‘I’ll come by next week, maybe just, god, just give me a thumbs up or thumbs down when I do. No hard feelings, I promise.’

‘Wait!’ you say. 

You stop leaning against the counter and take his coffee from him, which has him looking pretty nonplussed. You turn the cup around and hand it back, pointing at where your number is marked.

‘Uh,’ he says. ‘What do you want me to do with this.’

‘Text me,’ you say. ‘And maybe arrange a better date than just “I’ll come to your place of work at some point”, because that sucks.’

He stares at the number, then at you. You meet his eyes. He looks back down at his cup. You think he’s actually shy.

‘I can probably do that,’ he says.

You close your fingers around the wrist not holding the cup and pull him closer to you. He comes in a jerky kind of step that’s almost a stumble. He’s close enough to kiss. You breathe in the feeling of _nearly kissing Dave Strider,_ which is breathless and thrilling and addictive. You lean in until you’re nearly touching, until you can feel his uneven breath and your lips are tingling with promise. His lips brush yours in what isn’t really a kiss, is just a consequence of two people being this close. They’re soft. 

Finally, you kiss him. It’s gentle, sweet. His hands land on your waist and he presses a little firmer. You trace your fingers up his arm until you can brush his hair back. He leans his forehead into yours and you breathe out a laugh when he runs into your glasses. 

‘So I’ll text you?’ he says.

‘Don’t do the cool guy thing where you leave me hanging for three days,’ you say.

‘John, I’m going to text you before I get to the end of the street. I’m actually very annoying and clingy, are you sure you want in on this?’

You tighten your hold on his shoulder. You feel him smile and his foot shifts a little closer.

‘I really like you,’ you whisper.

He kisses you again. You don’t let him go for a really long time. Best Christmas present ever.


End file.
